


Entwined Fingers (Mismatched Threads)

by winter_flowers



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Fluff, Humor, Identity Porn, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Past Bucky Barnes/Steve Rogers, Post-Captain America: The First Avenger, Red String of Fate, Secret Identity, The Avengers (2012) Never Happened
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-28
Updated: 2019-05-05
Packaged: 2020-02-08 15:44:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,471
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18626272
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/winter_flowers/pseuds/winter_flowers
Summary: Steve's introduction to the twenty-first century feels like he crashed a plane into the ocean. Again. He has no friends, no family, and no place inthisNew York that he could call his home, and he's lost his soulmate forever. But hey, at least it can't get worse than this.So Steve does the only thing it feels right to do: he starts a normal life. A life that happens to begin with a cheap apartment in Brooklyn, as close tohomeas possible, and a job as a barista at a small, nondescript coffee shop in Manhattan. It all works out swimmingly—until he meets a certain attractive billionaire who riles up both his temper and heart like no one else.





	1. New York—Not New York

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome to my first Marvel fic! I only got into this fandom a few months ago, but I've loved this ship from the very start despite their canonical split (yes, Civil War, I'm looking at you) and I'm a sucker for their happy endings. This plot bunny came to me around the beginning of April and it wouldn't leave me alone so . . .
> 
> A million thanks to my lovely beta, Anna, for catching my mistakes and dealing with all my (sometimes trivial) concerns, from characterization to whether Captain America actually swears—because that's what friends who've been in the fandom longer are for, am I right? XD
> 
> Happy reading!

When Steve blinked his eyes open, his mind struggling to catch up with reality as bright light filtered through his vision, his first thought was that it was warm. Which didn’t make sense because—why didn’t it make sense?

A series of images flashed through his mind.

The plane. Peggy. _I’m gonna need a rain check on that dance_.

Steering the plane down into the water, the impact unforgiving as they sink.

_Cold. Darkness._

_Nothing._

So why was it warm?

As his senses began to realign themselves with his consciousness, Steve pushed himself up to a sitting position slowly and took in his surroundings. He felt tension from inactivity pulsing in his muscles as he swung his legs over the side of the bed. There was a fan turning slowly on the ceiling and the only source of light came from two open windows (other than a lamp so dim it contributed almost nothing).

A hospital room. (Did that mean they’d hauled him out of the ocean after all?)

It didn’t feel quite as it should’ve, Steve decided, but he couldn’t pinpoint why.

A radio played atop a dresser. “Curveball, high and outside for ball one. So the Dodgers are tied, 4-4. And the crowd well knows . . .”

Steve’s insides lurched as the announcer continued. That couldn’t be right. He remembered this game from May of 1941, remembered watching it from the stands, hands clenched into fists as he urged, _Come on, come on_ in his head. It made Steve uneasy just recalling it because he knew he’d crashed that plane into the ocean and even if he’d been rescued (unlikely in itself, he’d known the odds when he went in), this kind of bare room wouldn’t have been the type of place in which he’d awaken. And the game—that was a major red flag.

It was then that the door opened, Steve’s head snapping up towards it, and a woman walked into the room. He could recognise, now, how much effort they’d put in to make her costume realistic, but it was still only an imitation that hadn’t considered many of the details. The fabric of her shirt, her posture, the way her hair was curled. Every single bit counted and Steve wasn’t convinced.

“Good morning,” she greeted, and her accent wasn’t quite right either, but without all the earlier clues, Steve wouldn’t have thought twice about it. With a glance at her watch, she amended, “Or should I say, afternoon?”

“Where am I?” Steve asked, his tone calm despite the stiffening of his shoulders in preparation for her answers.

“You’re in a recovery room in New York City.”

And that was the truth, Steve realized, but not all of it. He gave her a once-over, glanced out the window and then at the radio before turning back to her. “Where am I really?”

The slightest hint of panic flashed through her eyes, well-disguised enough that anyone else could have overlooked it. “I’m afraid I don’t understand.”

“The game,” he told her. “It’s from May, nineteen-forty-one. I know ’cause I was there.” He rose from the bed, his eyes never leaving her increasingly anxious expression (hidden behind what he now knew was false confusion, of course) as he stepped towards her. “Now I’m gonna ask you again. Where am I?”

“Captain Rogers—”

“Who are you?”

Steve’s mind stuttered for only the briefest moment when two men dressed entirely in black burst into the room. Then, his instincts took over and with three simple motions, he knocked them through the wall, which crumbled and revealed the much larger space where the false room had been set up. Without hesitation, Steve sprinted out the double doors, taking only a second to blink in shock at the wide hallway and wall of windows before shoving his way past anyone who tried to stop him as he searched for the exit.

Outside was . . . different.

It was Manhattan, that much he knew—he could recognize the New York City streets anywhere, no matter how much they differed from what he was used to. Almost as soon as he’d exited the building, a car that looked nothing like the ones he’d ever seen—not even Stark’s ‘flying’ ones—nearly collided with him. Pedestrians hurried along the side of the road, shielding themselves from the drizzle with dark umbrellas. Steve barely spared a glance at all of it as he picked up the pace and ran as far as he could from wherever he’d been held before, though he only had a vague sense of where he was going.

Then, he saw Times Square—or at least, he assumed it was Times Square.

This Times Square had what seemed to be coloured television on a far larger scale, covering entire faces of buildings. Advertisements and signs lined every visible surface, many of which he couldn’t recognize or comprehend without the proper context. New Yorkers hustled about without regard for anyone else and Steve noticed distantly how out-of-place he was with his thin T-shirt among all those wearing their jackets.

He turned in a circle, then another, his eyes scanning over everything again and again although his brain could not keep up with how _exotic_ it all felt. It was overwhelming, the lights and images that almost seemed to multiply each time he looked.

The sudden influx of car horns drew Steve’s attention and he tensed as several black vehicles surrounded him.

A clipped voice from behind had him whirling around. “At ease, soldier.”

As men in dark suits exited the cars and began to keep the crowd away, a bald man with an eyepatch approached him. His expression betrayed nothing, but his voice held genuine concern as he said, “Look, I’m sorry about that little show back there but . . . we thought it best to break it to you slowly.”

Steve’s heart pounded wildly in his chest, his breathing quickening as panic welled inside him. “Break what?”

“You’ve been asleep, Cap,” the man answered. “For almost seventy years.”

 _Seventy years_.

The logical part of his brain accepted this immediately, citing it as proper rationale for all the inexplicable yet seemingly probable sights he’d seen since escaping the building. However, the rest of Steve struggled to catch up to the implications—missing seventy years of his life, thinking he’d died and waking to a New York that was both familiar and foreign, was an absurd idea. Yet it was the only explanation.

 _Seventy years_.

How had he survived the freezing ocean, trapped without oxygen? Even if the ice had preserved his body somehow, it should have been impossible for his brain to wake after seventy whole years.

And after seventy years . . . was there anyone he knew left in this world?

“You gonna be okay?” the man asked.

Steve glanced around him and, almost instinctively, replied, “Yeah. Yeah, I just . . . I had a date.”

(That wasn’t a lie. But it wasn’t quite the truth either.)

With a grim turn of his lips, the man shakes his head. “My sympathies, Captain. Now, if you could please return with us—there’s still a lot to sort out for your return to the world.”

“Hold on a second,” Steve protested. “I don’t even know who you are.”

“My name is Nick Fury. I’m the director of the Strategic Homeland Intervention, Enforcement, and Logistics Division. Welcome to the twenty-first century, Captain.”

Welcome, indeed.

Steve almost laughed. The first time he’d woken in seventy years and the first thing they did was to lie, to give him a false sense of security—what a way to make an impression. Even if the future welcomed him, he wasn’t sure he could welcome the future. But there was no other choice for him to make in that regard.

The director invited Steve to return to SHIELD’s headquarters (not that Steve had any other options) and explained first and foremost that the Allies had won. Which Steve had already partially inferred, based on the lack of _Heil Fuhrer_ posters or other Nazi-related propaganda lining the streets of New York. To his credit, Nick Fury proceeded to provide Steve with a stack of history books outlining the events from 1945 to the beginning of the new century, as well as a text outlining the technological developments of the last few decades. At least he’d finally understand how moving, coloured billboards were invented.

His greatest gift to Steve was the stack of files that Fury explained contained information about all his friends and allies from the war, including their current statuses and locations. They were placed atop the many books Steve had received, and under Fury’s direction, he placed them in his living quarters for future reading. The director assured him that he could reside there for as long as he wished, but would in no way be forced to do so. It was, however, recommended that he stay until appropriately acquainted with modern life.

Then, he introduced Steve to the gym. Though the layout and equipment were somewhat unfamiliar, he was endlessly grateful for the punching bags lining the back wall—he would probably end up using them later when he needed to unleash his suppressed emotions. (If you asked Steve, he’d tell you he’d done quite well to hide his frustration from Fury so far.)

Fury took Steve to the communal dining area next, explained mealtimes and, quite considerately, the lack of necessity for rationing, then maneuvered them back to his own office. There, a redheaded woman, whose strong stance reminded Steve so much of one Peggy Carter, awaited them.

“Captain Rogers, this is Agent Romanoff. She will accompany you anytime you need to go outside.” He held up a hand before Steve’s protests could push past his lips. “This is for your own safety, Captain. The world has changed since the forties and until you can hold your own in a conversation of modern pop culture references and slang, I’m afraid I can’t let you go out alone.”

Steve gritted his teeth and nodded sharply. It wasn’t that he didn’t understand—he hated being treated like he didn’t know better, and he hated that in this case, he really didn’t know anything about the world now. So he turned to the agent and said, “Ms. Romanoff. Thank you in advance for your trouble.”

“Of course, Captain Rogers,” she returned. “When you wish, you will also find me an excellent sparring partner. Director.” With a tip of her head towards Fury, she swept out of the room in long, confident strides, leaving Steve staring after her in admiration and curiosity.

“Well, Captain, if there is anything you need, you only have to ask.” When Steve glanced back, Fury had rounded the corner of his desk and was taking a seat in his leather chair. “Otherwise, you are free to go. I trust you have a lot to catch up on.”

Steve inclined his head in acknowledgement, but hesitated when he took his first step to leave. “Director, if it’s not too much trouble . . . could I have a notebook and some pencils? The, ah, blank kind. Not the lined ones.”

The director looked most perplexed at the request. “Of course, Captain. They’ll be delivered to your room later today.”

Steve exhaled in relief, knowing he would soon regain some form of the past. “Thank you, Director. Good afternoon.”

 

\---

 

It didn’t take long for Steve to discover that the ghosts of the past never really left you alone.

True to Fury’s word, two notebooks and a sturdy cloth bag—a pencil case, Steve was informed—that contained HB and 2B pencils, an eraser, and three black pens arrived in Steve’s room shortly before dinner. He ate quickly, deciding he was finished long before he felt full, and spent the rest of his evening curled up against the headboard of his bed, notebook balanced on his knee. Art had always been his one remedy whenever he needed to untangle his mess of emotions. In his sketches, Steve could clear his mind and focus solely upon that which brought him happiness, and there was nothing he needed more after the day’s events.

When he’d finished drawing the night view of New York as seen through his window, Steve glanced at the clock and blinked in surprise. 11:34 PM. When had it become so late?

He shut his sketchbook and returned his materials to the pencil case. He then placed both on the bedside table and stood to brush his teeth and change. However, when he turned off the lights and pulled the blankets over himself, Steve found his mind restless and his body unwilling to slip away into unconsciousness.

Perhaps it was the shock of waking up in the twenty-first century, perhaps it was being surrounded by objects and buildings that seemed so, so familiar but were so different. Perhaps his body knew how long he’d slept and was releasing its pent-up energy in the form of not giving Steve the peace of slumber. Perhaps it was the images of his comrades flashing over his eyelids, the image of Bucky falling from that train, Peggy’s voice in his ear.

Whatever case it was, Steve couldn’t sleep.

He rolled over onto his side. _Don’t think about them, don’t think about Buck and Peggy and the Commandos. Don’t think about the sleek cars parked outside, or the colourful moving billboards in Times Square. Don’t think about how—_

_—you’ll never see them again, Steve. It’s been seventy years, they’re probably dead now even if they hadn’t perished in the war. It’s too late._

_It’s just you now._

Steve’s eyes shot open and he clenched his fists tightly over the mattress, trying to shut off the influx of thoughts in his mind. He felt his heartbeat slow to a steady pulse and snuck another look to the clock.

1:21 AM.

With a sigh, Steve swung his legs off the bed and left the room, tracing the steps from Fury’s earlier tour towards the gym. He was briefly startled by the lights that had turned on overhead as soon as he’d taken two steps into the room, but recovered quickly (after falling into a defensive stance because, hey, there could’ve been an intruder trying to blind him with lights, okay?). He headed straight to the punching bag hanging from the ceiling near the back, remembering last minute to wrap his hands using a roll of gauze that he found on one of the benches nearby.

Steve began without holding back. He channeled all his strength into his fists and each punch sent the bag swinging a metre away before returning. It was only in this that he found an outlet to his rage, his despair at fate’s betrayal. Why him? Why had the world, or whatever deity governed it, allowed Steve to be thawed from the ice into a time that was not his own? Why couldn’t they have left him dead?

(Was he ever even dead in the first place?)

Unfortunately, in his eagerness to relieve his frustration, Steve had forgotten to take into account his own strength. With a particularly strong hit, the punching bag flew off its chain and landed just in front of the wall, split open, leaving Steve’s arm frozen mid-swing without a target. He let both his arms drop to his sides, breathing heavily—not at the physical exertion, but the emotions that he’d allowed to surface from their repressed place in his mind.

“Trouble sleeping?”

Steve whirled around at the sound of Fury’s voice, his posture straightening instinctively. “As much as expected. Sir,” he added at Fury’s expectant quietness.

“I have a proposal for you, Captain,” Fury said after a beat, during which Steve had not moved a muscle under the director’s observing eye. “How do you feel about joining a team of exceptional individuals as Earth’s defense to external forces?”

Steve raised his eyebrows at his choice of words and all the implications hidden within them. Other enhanced humans, other malevolent forces that could threaten humanity—and being back in action. “Trying to get me back into the world, sir? It’s barely been a day.”

“Trying to be prepared in case we need to save it,” Fury corrected. “If, and when, Earth is threatened, we need to be prepared. Considering the circumstances in which the serum in your veins was created, I’m sure you understand my reasons for this, Captain.”

And Steve did, in a sense. However, it was one thing being a skinny kid from Brooklyn trying to serve his country in a war involving three continents of the world. It was something entirely different to join a superhero team to fight aliens—at least, that was what he presumed Fury was trying to say. The question, therefore, came down to how much he was willing to do. For America—and for the world.

“This is not a decision you need to make today, Cap.” Fury gestured towards the broken punching bag. “I’m sure you still have a lot to process.”

Steve stood stiff and still, his gaze never wavering as he held Fury’s eyes. “With all due respect, sir,” he started, knowing that Fury must have known anything beginning with such a phrase would traditionally be disrespectful or rejective, “I may be a soldier, but we are not at war. I’d like some time to . . . to make New York my home again.”

It wasn’t an unreasonable request, in Steve’s opinion. If Fury had come to him with news of an imminent threat, there would have been no question that his answer would be ‘yes.’ But there was no threat, no war, nor anything else that required uncovering the presence of Captain America. So why would he?

When Fury did not speak, Steve continued, “If you truly need me, when such a danger arises, I will stand by the team you have assembled and fight as I always have. In the meantime, it looks like I’m here to stay, so I’d like to start a new life.” In his gaze, unspoken, he conveyed exactly how serious he was about this decision and the stubbornness with which he would hold this choice to the end.

Fury waited another moment before speaking. “If that’s your decision, Captain, I will respect it. Your identity has remained secret to the public and S.H.I.E.L.D. has made sure your records remain under tight security. I will make the necessary arrangements.”

Recognizing the dismissal for what it was, Steve nodded curtly in respect and exited the gym. Truthfully, he had his concerns about beginning a life in this new age. There was much he still did not understand about current social customs and culture, not to mention all the references he would miss out on if he hung out with a group of similarly aged (seventy years of sleep excluded) peers today. Perhaps returning to his status as a soldier would have been the simpler, less stressful choice.

(But Steve Rogers had never been known to take the easy way out.)

Although Steve’s sense of justice and loyalty had never wavered, he wasn’t sure he was ready to be Captain America again. And who was to say the world was ready for him?


	2. Something Old, Something New

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I admit that most of this was written during times I should have been studying... Whoops. I might've also angsted over the characterization of basically everyone but I think the result was worth it. Thanks again to my lovely beta for enduring all my questions XD
> 
> Enjoy!

Steve only understood the scope of what Fury’s _I will make the necessary arrangements_ meant when, three days and a particularly gruelling sparring session with one Natasha Romanoff (during which they somehow improved their status to first-name-basis) later, he was interrupted during his post-breakfast studying of modern life by a series of short knocks. Standing at the door was Natasha, carrying a file as thick as a textbook, a rectangular box the size of two textbooks placed side by side, and a second box smaller than a notebook but much deeper, all stacked on top of each other in her arms.

“Uh,” Steve started, “good morning?”

“I heard you want to start a normal life,” she said without a greeting.

“Yes, ma’am,” he replied automatically. “Are those—are those supposed to help me do that?”

With a nod, she shoved the items into his arms and invited herself into his room. Steve followed and placed them on his desk, awaiting her explanation.

“I know Fury’s already given you books to catch you up on all the history you’ve missed, but you’ll need new technology if you want to understand how today’s world works.” She pointed to the file. “This details your new life—your backstory, your living accommodations, your resume, and your job.”

“I have a job?” Steve asked, already flipping through the pages. His name and birthdate were his own—Steven Grant Rogers, age twenty-six, born July 4 (of 1985, not 1918)—and the additional information revealed that he’d been raised in a small, rural town Steve had never heard of by technophobic parents who were now deceased and had joined the army at eighteen. It wasn’t a perfect cover, and any professional would be able to see right through it, but he supposed it was enough for his purposes.

The job S.H.I.E.L.D. had given him was at a place called _Brewing Happbeanness_ , which was honestly one of the most awful coffee puns Steve had ever heard. According to Natasha, it was a small café in midtown Manhattan that received regular customers and brewed a variety of authentic, good coffee for a comparatively cheap price. Considering that where Steve came from, coffee had costed a nickel per cup, he wasn’t seeing anything cheap about it.

“Now this,” Natasha said, moving on to the textbook-sized box, “is a portable computer, called a laptop.”

Steve blinked down at the box. “A computer.” He was tempted to glance at the walls to see if they’d hidden the processing units behind the paint, but something told him that would make him seem . . . well, technologically uneducated.

Seeming to sense his confusion, Natasha opened the box and removed a thinner rectangle that she then split open, revealing one side that contained a screen and another perpendicular to it that held a keyboard. “Technology has come a long way,” she explained. “Oh, have you finished reading the timeline of technological developments yet?”

He shook his head. “I’ve only gone through major events and changes to legislation so far.” And the document that contained public knowledge of and response to his identity as Captain America, but he didn’t feel that was necessary to mention.

Natasha pursed her lips. “All right, that’ll make this a little harder. Basically, they condensed the computers that took up half a room in your time to fit inside a more portable device.” She lifted the bottom of the laptop and tapped it twice in demonstration. “Using this, you can access and save files of all kinds, and search for new information on the Internet. I’ll teach you how to log in and use Google later. For now, let’s talk about this.”

Steve’s mind was trying to process her brief description without dwelling too much on all the unfamiliar terms—Internet? Log in? _Google_? That sounded like weird slang to describe making eyes at someone, and Steve hoped to God that she wasn’t about to teach him to do that. However, when Natasha opened the other box and showed him a device smaller than his palm, he knew there was a lot more he needed to learn.

“This is a flip phone,” she told him, opening the cover to reveal a screen and keypad. “It’s actually quite outdated now, but we’re going to take baby steps here because you obviously need them.” Steve nearly winced but understood her point. “You enter the number you want to call and press the button marked with a green phone symbol. Phone numbers now are ten digits, the first three being an area code based on your state or city.” She paused. “Are you following, Steve?”

Steve stared at the device for a few more seconds before nodding slowly. “I think so.”

Natasha seemed to assess his expression for several moments before continuing, “You can save numbers into your phone under people’s names, like this.” She pressed a series of buttons, showing him how to navigate the menu and input a new contact. “I’ve already saved S.H.I.E.L.D.’s, Fury’s, and my own number into your phone in case of emergencies. You can also send us text messages—sort of like telegrams, but you type them in using your keypad—”

And Steve had to interject here because “How?”

Thankfully, Natasha was patient with him. “You see the small letters beside numbers two to zero? If you press each button once after opening the option to text, it’ll input the first letter. Press it twice or three times fast to reach the second and third ones. Then, when you’ve constructed your message, press send.” She sent ‘hi’ to her own number and dug out her phone (also a flip phone, Steve noticed, though it may have been for his benefit) to show that she’d received it.

Steve took the phone from her when she offered it and tentatively experimented in pressing a few of the buttons as Natasha had demonstrated earlier.

“Try calling me,” she prompted and Steve pressed the middle button to open the menu, scanning the screen for his contacts. After finding Natasha’s name, he selected it, then pressed the green phone image on the keypad. Natasha’s phone rang in her pocket and Steve couldn’t help but feel a tingle of excitement at his success. He held the phone up to his ear and spoke into it.

“Hey, Natasha.”

“Hi, Steve.” Hearing her humour-filled voice through the device while she stood a foot away was odd, but Steve wasn’t really in the mood to care. “Okay, press the red little phone symbol to end the call.”

He glanced at the keypad and spotted the red button to the opposite side of the green one. Upon pressing it, he saw the message on the screen that notified him of the call’s end.

“That’s all you’ll need to know for now, at least until you get used to this,” she said. “I think you should read up on the advancement of technology before we start on the laptop, though.”

Steve inwardly agreed, still clutching the flip phone in wonder. “Is that the end of today’s lesson then?” he half-joked, grinning when it made her crack a smile.

“Not quite. I’m going to take you to your new workplace today so you can start next week.” Natasha eyed his white T-shirt and shorts. “Change into something a little warmer—it’s rainy today.”

It turned out, as Steve discovered a half hour later, that _Brewing Happbeanness_ was quite the cozy little place. Upon walking through the door, they were greeted by a completely empty room bordered by light grey walls that were decorated with large frames of black-and-white photographs and twinkling fairy lights. The brown-haired man who stood behind the counter was completely focused on a small device in his hand and did not look up at their arrival. It seemed rude not to acknowledge one’s customers, in Steve’s opinion, so he rapped his knuckles on the wall by the door. Still, the man continued on as if he hadn’t heard.

When Steve glanced at Natasha, she was shaking her head with a smile that seemed to soften around the edges when she turned to face the man. It made him even more confused, but he merely watched as she marched up to him and waved her hand right in front of his face.

His head snapped up and his right hand flew up towards his ear, fumbling with something—inside it? Behind it? Steve couldn’t really tell. Then, he grinned. “Oh, hey, Nat. Didn’t think you’d be here so early. And this must be the famous Captain America.”

Natasha motioned for Steve to come forward. “Steve, this is Agent Clint Barton, the manchild who happens to know the manager of this shop. He arranged for the three of us to work here part-time while you become accustomed to your new life.”

It made Steve feel a little funny to hear his adaptation referred to as his “new life,” even though he’d been the first to use it this way. It also irked him a bit that this Agent Clint Barton had “arranged” their job positions there, though he may have been being overly sensitive about it.

“Pleasure to meet you, Mr. Barton.” He held out his hand and the agent shook it, his grip firm.

“Call me Clint, I don’t need that ‘mister’ or ‘agent’ nonsense. Can I call you Steve?”

“Sure,” Steve replied, stuffing his hands into the pockets of his jeans as he waited for further instructions.

Natasha gave him a pat on the shoulder. “I’ll leave you in Barton’s hands for now. Call me when you guys are finished, there’s one more stop to make before we go back.” She met Clint’s gaze and gave him a brief nod before exiting the café.

(It may have been Steve’s imagination, but he could have sworn he saw warm affection passing between the two of them in that fraction of a second when their eyes had met. The kind of affection he’d shared with Bucky.)

Once she was gone, Clint waved Steve into the back room. “The other employees will be preparing the food in here throughout the day and they’ll pass it to you using this counter here.” He pointed to the window in the wall between them that had a wide metal surface as its base. At Steve’s look of awe towards the machinery inside, he added, “You’ll never need to be back here, don’t worry.”

Steve nodded in acknowledgement, his eyes wandering to Clint’s ears. Now that he was closer, he could see small devices hooked at the backs of his ears with thin tubes leading into them. They didn’t look like anything Steve had seen before, but if he had to hazard a guess . . .

He must’ve been less subtle than he’d thought, because Clint noticed his staring and said, “Whatever you’re thinking, it’s probably right.”

Blinking in surprise, Steve hesitantly asked, “Are they . . . hearing aids?”

“Got it in one,” Clint answered, which Steve took to mean ‘yes.’ “Can’t really hear well without them—which, I mean, is what they’re there for after all. I had the volume turned down when you guys walked in, so sorry you didn’t get to experience my dramatic welcome.”

Steve shook his head. “Don’t worry about it. Besides, when you put it like that, I’m not sure I’d like to experience it.”

That made Clint laugh and playfully knock his shoulder into Steve’s. “Who knew Captain America had a sense of humour?”

“Don’t believe everything you see in the comics,” Steve replied drily. He hadn’t even known there were comics based on his life until the previous day, and had requested a few from Fury out of curiosity. Twenty pages in, he’d decided that had probably been a mistake.

They returned to the front counter, where Clint introduced him to what he called the point of sale, or POS, system. It included a touch-screen monitor overtop a cash register, a machine that read a form of payment called debit or credit cards (“Ask Nat about it later, if I try to explain it all to you now, I’ll get off track and it’ll take hours.”), and another machine that printed out receipts.

Clint’s tone was apologetic and sheepish as he said, “I know it’s only been a few days since you woke up, but you’re gonna have to learn how to use this, fast.” Fortunately, Steve was able to memorize the steps to inputting orders of various kinds and acknowledging coupons, discounts, or specials, thanks to his serum-improved memory. _Un_ fortunately, he couldn’t wrap his head around all the technology involved with actually making the drinks.

“Oh, don’t worry about that,” Clint reassured him after hearing his concerns. “If you aren’t comfortable with it, then just stick to getting the orders and cleaning up the floor once in a while. The policy here is that customers throw away whatever garbage they can and leave the dishes on the tables, so you’ll need to collect those.”

That was simple enough, at least. Steve went over all the procedures involved with ringing up orders again before Clint turned his attention to the menu, which was displayed across several screens overhead.

“Try to memorize most of the stuff we sell and their prices, especially the special items of each week,” he advised. “It’ll make working the machine and answering questions a lot easier for you.”

Steve skimmed over the list and asked for a pen and some paper to copy it down, but Clint waved him off with the promise that he would procure a laminated version before he left today.

“Made it just for you, Cap. It has little cartoon drawings and all,” he boasted.

By the time he called Natasha to pick him up, Steve was beginning to feel the consequences of his superhuman metabolism, combined with not having eaten enough at breakfast that morning (he was trying to save food, okay?). Clint’s solution was to feed him an assortment of baked goods that he’d made for the café as potential candidates for future weekly specials.

As a child, Steve had never had many chances to indulge in the finer aspects of life—having a billion and one health complications while growing up in the Great Depression will do that to you. So it would’ve been an understatement to describe his reaction as anything less than absolutely entranced.

“Oh my _God_ , Clint,” he moaned as he finished another slice of cake. Key lime with coconut, it was called. “If I didn’t know exactly how my body works, I’d hate you for making me gain ten pounds overnight.”

Looking decidedly self-satisfied, Clint finally sat down across from Steve at the table on which he’d laid out his creations. “Hey, once you start working here, you can have the extras whenever you want. Your metabolism will just burn it all off anyway.”

From her spot by the counter, on which she’d been leaning as she waited for Steve to replenish his nutrients (questionable, since all Clint fed him were desserts), Natasha chuckled. “See, Steve, now you don’t need to worry about Barton having obtained our positions using nefarious reasons. I know you were thinking it,” she added when she saw the look on Steve’s face.

Natasha had refused to reveal where they were going, so Steve merely followed silently, taking in the changes to a city he used to know like the back of his hand. He pointed out a few notable locations and signs, sometimes interesting and sometimes confusing, for Natasha to explain—people actually enjoyed shooting others in a _war simulation_? Weren’t the World Wars bad enough for them?

Steve found his gaze constantly straying away from the road in front of him and latching onto advertisements, fast food restaurant signs, and towering skyscrapers. He’d seen his fair share of tall buildings—the Empire State _had_ been built in his time, after all—but nothing of such modern design. (He used ‘design’ quite loosely because frankly, some of them were downright hideous.)

“We’re here.” Natasha’s voice and sudden stop made Steve snap his eyes towards where they’d stopped.

He froze. Nostalgia slammed into him like a bucket of cold water.

Steve remembered intimately the last time he’d been in Central Park. Although the view was different, there was no doubt where they were. The memories crashed through his mind in an unstoppable wave, and he took a step into the park, then another, his body moving as if in a trance.

He could hear Bucky’s voice in his ear. “Hey, Stevie, you good? Tired? You’re looking a bit pale.”

“Shut up,” Steve had responded, though in reality he’d been a bit winded from their long walk across the park. “Quit mothering me and just walk.”

Bucky had scowled, shrugged off his coat, then proceeded to drape it over Steve’s shoulders. The weather had been mild and rather sunny that day, but Steve had begun to shiver from the wind and had been grateful for the offering, even if—

“I don’t need it, Buck,” Steve had scowled.

—even if he’d instinctively reacted the way he had, ever stubborn and proud.

“Sure you don’t.” A casual smirk on his face, Bucky had lifted his arm and Steve had known he was going to ruffle his hair but stood there and allowed him to do just that. “Gotta keep yourself warm, or you’ll get sick again and then who would I tease?” Then, he’d spotted a bench and dragged them both over to rest.

Steve had rolled his eyes but hadn’t resisted as Bucky pushed him down onto the bench by his shoulders. “Is that your only reason? Jerk.”

“Punk,” Bucky had retorted, his arm resting on the back of the bench behind Steve.

Their proximity had always made Steve feel warmer than any number of clothes or blankets. It had become second nature for him to be beside Bucky, to have his hands helping him stand after a confrontation and to hear his laughter in his ear. His mother had told him once that home was a person, not a place, and it had been in these moments that Steve had known with more certainty than ever that Bucky was his home.

The silence between them had always been comfortable, not a burden. Steve had turned his head to watch rays of sunlight shine through Bucky’s hair and light up half his face. Passersby had continued to stroll along the path in front of them, but Steve hadn’t noticed anything apart from the body heat radiating from his best friend and the peacefulness in his expression—eyes closed, head tilted up ever-so-slightly, an easy smile on his lips.

 _Beautiful_.

(Bucky had come down with a cold a day later. Steve served him porridge in bed and drew his portrait as he ate.)

“Steve?”

He jerked back to the present, turning his head back to Natasha so quickly that he was sure if he were anyone else, he would’ve heard a crack from his neck. “Sorry,” he said. “Just. Remembering some things.” Natasha stayed silent and Steve felt obligated to add, “I used to come here a lot. With—with my boyfriend.”

If Natasha was surprised, she didn’t show it on her face. Instead, she nodded and gestured towards the park in front of them. “Central Park has experienced its ups and downs, and you’ll notice some changes because of that, but I thought you’d appreciate the greenery.” She hesitated, then added, “I’m sure you don’t need me to remind you that it’ll only hurt to dwell on the past, Steve.”

Steve grimaced—she was right, he knew that, but he also knew it would hurt even more if he tried to put Bucky out of his mind. Nonetheless, he appreciated her concern. “Thank you, Natasha.” He would keep her words in mind.

 

\---

 

Over the next few days, Steve brushed up on his knowledge of technology and of _Brewing Happbeanness_ , and learned from Natasha how to use the Internet—and, by extension, Google—to his benefit. He’d never admit it, but the first time Natasha had opened something called Google Chrome on the laptop she’d given him, he’d shrieked at the list of suggestions that had appeared the instant he’d typed a single word into the “search bar.” Once he’d overcome his initial shock, however, Steve had discovered the ease of obtaining information from the Internet. He’d ventured into a few sites he’d rather not have seen, but his overall experience had been better than he’d expected.

After his experimentation with the Internet had granted him enough knowledge about current culture that Steve hadn’t been able to truly understand from the history books, Natasha deemed him to have progressed far enough to be released into the world (under supervision, of course). She handed him a schedule of his shifts at the coffee shop and told him to begin the following Monday.

On Sunday night, Steve’s restlessness was worse than usual, and he spent hours staring up at the ceiling as his mind worked relentlessly. It was frightening, to a degree, knowing that once he took this step forward, he would truly be leaving his past life behind. There was no way he could’ve had it back in the first place, but putting himself in a position of this new world and interacting with _people_ of this world—it would cement his position here, permanently.

The good thing was that Fury had not attempted to force him to take up Captain America’s mantle again, at least not yet. Steve could only hope that it stayed that way until he’d found a place for himself here.

In the end, he only slept for about three hours before his first day at _Brewing Happbeanness_ , but his shift was thankfully not until two in the afternoon (Natasha mentioned something about avoiding the morning rush). He arrived nearly an hour earlier, though, to watch the other employees work and see how the café operated. Clint sat across from him, pointing out seemingly random observations about the regular customers and directing Steve’s attention to examples of mannerisms or dialogue he needed to remember as a barista.

At around a quarter to twelve, Natasha beckoned him over to the back. “Here, wear this over your shirt.” She handed him the same navy blue apron with the café’s logo that all the employees wore and pointed him to the staff bathroom. “After that, just leave your stuff in an empty locker and tell the others you’re replacing Natalie. That’s me.”

Steve glanced at her in confusion. “You’re leaving?”

“Clint will stay with you,” she assured him. “I need to take care of something.”

He nodded, bid her goodbye, and headed to the washroom to change.

Clint was already waiting for him behind the counter when he stepped back out, a grin on his face as Steve approached. “Okay, ready for your first twenty-first-century job?”

Steve only chuckled. “Not sure if I’ll ever be ready for anything in this century.”

His comment drew a surprised laugh from Clint, loud enough to attract the attention of the nearest customers. With a firm pat on his shoulder, Clint told him, “Yeah, you’ll fit in just fine, buddy.”

And he did.

The first few hours of his shift passed uneventfully. Steve became the subject of a few wide-eyed and unabashed stares (and unintentionally heard many whispers complimenting his physique that made his ears turn red) but managed to only mess up once while ringing up orders. In his defence, the customer had ordered something he’d been sure the café didn’t serve, until he’d realized half of the things they’d said were add-ons printed in a tiny font at the bottom of the menu.

Around rush hour, the flow increased as people coming off work came to pick up desserts or grab a sandwich and pastry to-go. Though the food selection was limited—they were a drinks-focused café, after all—its options were well-priced and, judging from the images and their popularity, quite delicious indeed.

Later into the evening, when the crowd had gone, Steve stepped out from behind the counter to clean up the nearest tables. Natasha had switched with Clint mid-afternoon and was currently organizing their cups and other materials. Steve had asked earlier whether it was okay for them to be staying with him at the coffee shop instead of doing their S.H.I.E.L.D. work, but she’d assured him that a) they had the time and were not dealing with anything of stronger urgency, and b) Steve was of high enough priority to occupy their time.

He wasn’t sure if he was flattered or annoyed that he had not one, but _two_ babysitters. The secret agent kind.

Roughly an hour before closing, Steve was startled out of his persistent staring match with the clock by the chime of the bell as the door opened. “Welcome to Happs,” he started, the customary greeting falling from his lips instinctively before he abruptly cut himself off and took in the stranger’s appearance.

Dark brown hair and eyes, an expression of confidence matched by his posture. A moustache and beard framing the slightest quirk of his lips. This was no stranger’s appearance. This was someone Steve had never thought he’d see again—someone proclaimed dead by all the files and Wikipedia pages he’d read—but no. This was someone slightly different, too.

Still, that didn’t stop the name that was shakily breathed from his mouth a moment later.

“Howard?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tbh this chapter was supposed to be the first meeting between Steve and Tony but the characters had a mind of their own and I somehow got to 3000 words before realizing Tony hadn't been introduced yet lol. My updates unfortunately won't be as quick from now on because school is about to get reallyyyy busy, but I'll try to write whenever I can (I have a habit of stress-writing so I guess we'll see).
> 
> Also, do you guys think I should write some chapters in Tony's POV? There's so much opportunity if I occasionally use his perspective, but consistency... I'm not sure what I'll do yet :/


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